“Reassure yourself,” said she, “he came expressly to inform me that his evening was not free.”
The dinner was only passably lively. Mlle. Moiseney owed M. Langis a grudge; she could not forgive him for having made fun of her more than once—in her eyes an unpardonable sin. M. Moriaz was enchanted to find himself once more in company with his dear Camille; but he kept asking himself, mournfully, “Why is not he to be my son-in-law?” Antoinette had several attacks of abstraction; she did not, however, omit the least friendly attention to Camille. Love had become master of this generous soul; it might cause it to commit many imprudences, but it was not in its power to cause it to commit an injustice.
At nine o’clock M. Langis mounted his horse and took his departure.
Meanwhile, Mlle. Moriaz, her arm resting on the ledge of her window, was meditating on the strange conduct of Count Larinski as she gazed on the stars; the sky was without clouds, unless a little black speck above Mount-Valerien might be so called. Mlle. Moriaz’s heart swelled with emotion, and she felt implicit confidence that all would be arranged the next day. What is one black spot in the immensity of a starry sky?
In all that Samuel Brohl did, even in his wildest freaks, there was somewhat of calculation, or contrivance. Unquestionably, he had experienced intense displeasure at encountering M. Camille Langis at Cormeilles; he had, doubtless, very particular and very personal reasons for not liking him. He knew, however, that there was need for controlling his temper, his impressions, his rancour; and, if he ceased to do so for a moment, it was because he counted upon deriving advantage therefrom. He was impatient to enter into possession, to feel his good-fortune sheltered from all hazards; delays, procrastinations, long waiting, displeased and irritated him. He suspected M. Moriaz of purposely putting his shoulder to the wheel of time, and of preparing a contract that would completely tie the hands of Count Larinski. He resolved to seize the first opportunity of proving that he was mistrustful, stormy, susceptible, in the hope that Mlle. Moriaz would become alarmed and say to her father, “I intend to marry in three weeks, and without any conditions.” The opportunity had presented itself, and Samuel Brohl had taken good care not to lose it.
The next day he received the following note:
“You have caused me pain, a great deal of pain. Already! I passed a sorrowful evening, and slept wretchedly all night. I have reflected seriously upon our dispute; I have endeavoured to persuade myself that I was in the wrong: I have neither been able to succeed, nor to comprehend you. Ah! how your lack of confidence astonishes me! It is so easy to believe when one loves. Please write me word quickly that you also have reflected, and that you have acknowledged your misdemeanour. I will not insist upon your doing penance, your face humbled to the ground; but I will condemn you to love me to-day more than yesterday, to-morrow more than to-day. Upon these conditions, I will pass a sponge across your grave error, and we shall speak of it no more.
“Ever yours. It is agreed, is it not?” Samuel Brohl had the surprise of receiving at the same time another letter, thus worded:
“MY DEAR COUNT: I cannot explain to myself your conduct; you no longer give me any signs of life. I believed that I had some claims upon you, and that you would hasten to announce to me in person the great event of events, and seek my congratulations. Come, I beg of you, and dine this evening at Maisons with Abbe Miollens, who is dying to embrace you; he studies men in Horace, you know, and he finds none whom he prefers to you.
“You need not answer, but come; else I will be displeased with you as long as I live.”
Samuel replied as follows to Mlle. Moriaz:
“Be assured I have suffered more than you. Forgive me; much should be forgiven a man who has suffered much. My imagination is subject to the wildest alarms. Great, unlooked-for joy has rendered me mistrustful. I have been especially low-spirited of late. After having resolutely fought against my happiness, I tremble now lest it escape me; it appears to me too beautiful not to prove only a dream. To be loved by you! How can I help fearing to lose the great boon? Each evening I ask myself: ‘Will she still love me to-morrow?’ Perhaps my anxiety is blended with secret remorse. My pride, ever on the alert to take umbrage, has often been my torment; you can tell me it is only self-love: I will endeavour to cure myself of it, but this cannot be done in a day. During these long months of waiting there will come to me more than one suspicion, more than one troubled thought. I promise you, however, that I shall maintain a rigid silence concerning them, and, if possible, hide them.
“You condemn me, for my punishment, to love you to-day more than yesterday; you know well this were impossible. No; I shall inflict upon myself another chastisement. Mme. de Lorcy has invited me to dinner. I suspect her of having a very mediocre feeling of good-will for me, and I also accuse her of being cold and insensible; of understanding nothing whatever of the heart’s unreasonableness, which is true wisdom. Nevertheless, I will refrain from declining her invitation. It is at Maisons and not at Cormeilles that I shall this day pass my evening. Are you content with me? Is not the penance severe enough?
“But to-morrow—oh! I shall arrive at your home to-morrow by two o’clock, and I shall enter by the little green gate at the foot of the orchard. Will you do me a favour? Promenade about two o’clock in the gravel-walk that I adore. The wall being low at that place, I shall perceive from afar, before entering, the white silk of your sun-umbrella. I am counting, you see, upon sunshine. How very childish! Yet, even this is not strange; I was born three months and a half ago; I commenced to live July 5th of this year; at four o’clock in the afternoon, in the cathedral at Chur. Forgive me all my errors, my suspicions, my childish absurdities.”
Mlle. Moriaz concluded that it would be well to shorten the term of waiting, and that she would ask Count Larinski to fix the date of their marriage himself. As to the contract, she had immediate occasion to speak of it to her father, who announced to her that he had invited his notary, Maitre Noirot, to dine with him the next day.
She was silent a few moments, and then said, “Can you explain to me the use of notaries?”
He replied about as didle Philosophe sans le savoir: “We only see the present; notaries foresee the future and possible contingencies.”
She replied that she did not believe in contingencies, and that she did not like precautions, because they presupposed distrust, and might appear offensive.
“We have charming weather to-day,” said her father; “nevertheless there is a possibility of rain to-morrow. If I started this evening on a journey, I should carry my umbrella, without fearing to insult Providence. Who speaks to you of offending M. Larinski? Not content with approving of the step I propose taking, he will thank me for it. Why did he at first refuse to marry you? Because you are rich, and he is poor. The contract I wish to have drawn up will thoroughly set at ease his disinterestedness and his pride.”
“The question of money no longer exists for him,” she eagerly replied; “it is my desire that it should not be started again. And since you like comparisons, let us suppose that you invited one of your friends to take a turn in your garden. Your espaliers are laden with fruit, and you know that your friend is an honest man, and that, besides, he does not care for pears. Suppose you were to put handcuffs on him, would he or would he not be insulted?”
He answered in an exceedingly vexed tone, that this was entirely different, and Mlle. Moiseney having taken the liberty to interfere in the discussion in Antoinette’s behalf, declaring that Counts Larinski are not to be distrusted, and that men of science are incapable of comprehending delicacy of sentiment, he gave full vent to his wrath, telling the worthy demoiselle to meddle with what concerned her. For the first time in his life he was seriously angry. Antoinette caressed him into good-humour, promised that she would put on the best possible face to Maitre Noirot, that she would pay religious attention to his counsels, and that she would endeavour to profit by them.
While M. Moriaz was engaged in this stormy interview with his daughter, Samuel Brohl wasen routefor Maisons. After the first flush of astonishment, the note and invitation of Mme. de Lorcy had pleased him immensely; he saw in it the proof that she had ceased to struggle against the inevitable—against Samuel Brohl and destiny; that she had resolved to bear her disappointment with a cheerful countenance. He formed the generous resolution to console her for her vexation; to gain her good-will by force of modesty and graceful attentions.
Alone in his compartment of the cars, Samuel Brohl was happy, perfectly happy. He was nearing port; he held it for an established fact that, before a fortnight, the banns would be published. Was he alone in his compartment? An adored image kept him company; he spoke to it, it replied to him. Blended with a rather uncommon frigidity of soul, Samuel Brohl had an imagination that readily took fire, and, when his imagination was kindled, he felt within him something warm, which he took for a heart, and sincerely persuaded himself that he had such an organ. At this moment he saw Antoinette as he had left her the evening previous, her face animated, her cheeks flushed, her countenance full of reproach, her eyes tearful. She never had appeared to him so charming. He believed himself so madly in love that he was inclined to mock a little at himself. He teased in anticipation the joys that were in reserve for him; he revelled in thought of the day and the hour when this superb creature would be his, when he could view her as his own undisputed possession, and devour page after page, chapter after chapter, of this elegantly printed, richly bound book.
However, he was not the man to wholly absorb himself in such a reverie. His thoughts travelled farther; in idea he embraced his entire future, which he fashioned out at pleasure. He took leave of his sorrowful past as a blind man who by some miracle recovers his sight, parts from his dog and his staff—troublesome witnesses of evil days. He had done with petty employments, with ungrateful toil, with humiliating servitude, with anxiety about the morrow, with the necessity for counting every sou, with meagre repasts, with sordid expedients, with sorrow, distress, and usuries; to all these he said farewell. Henceforth he would pick up silver and gold by the shovelful; he would have a share in abundance of festivals—the joy of doing nothing—the pleasure of commanding—all the sweetness and all the calm satisfaction of delightful egotism—reposing in a bed of eider-down—fed upon delicate birds—owning two or three houses, a carriage, horses, and a box at the opera. What a future! At intervals Samuel Brohl passed his tongue over his lips; they were parched with thirst.
Alnaschar the Lazy received one hundred drachms of silver as his entire patrimony, and he promised himself that he would one day marry the daughter of the grand-vizier. He meant to clothe himself like a prince, to mount upon a horse with a saddle of fine gold and housings of gold, richly embroidered with diamonds and pearls. He proposed to see that his wife formed good habits, to train her to obedience, to teach her to stand before him and be always ready to wait upon him; he resolved to discipline her with his looks, his hand, and his foot. Samuel Brohl possessed a calmer spirit than the Athenian Hippoclide; he was less brutal than Alnaschar of Bagdad: was he much less ferocious? He proposed, he also, to educate his wife; he intended that the daughter of the grand-vizier should consecrate herself wholly to his happiness, to his service. To possess a beautiful slave, with velvety eyes, chestnut hair, tinged with gold, who would make of Samuel Brohl her padishah and her god, who would pass her life at his knees on the alert for his wishes, reading his good pleasure in his face, attentive to his fancies and to his eye-brows, belonging to him body and soul, uplifting to him the gaze of a timid gazelle or a faithful spaniel—such was his dream of conjugal felicity. And little need would he have to exert himself much in the education of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz. Love would charge itself with that. She adored Samuel Brohl, and he relied upon her devotion; it were impossible that she could refuse him anything! She was prepared in advance for every compliance, every obedience; she was ready to be his humble servant in all things. Knaves make it their boast that they can readily fathom honest people; the truth is, they only half comprehend them. Honest people have sentiments, as do certain languages, reputed easy, which are full of mystery, of refined delicacy, inaccessible to the vulgar mind. A commercial traveller often learns to speak Italian in three weeks, and yet never really knows the language; Samuel Brohl had gained a superficial knowledge of Mlle. Moriaz in a few days, and yet he was far from having a true comprehension of her.
He arrived at Maisons in the most cheerful, self-satisfied frame of mind. As he walked through the park, he remembered that Mme. de Lorcy had lost her only two children when they were still of a tender age; that she was therefore free to will her property as she pleased; that she had a short neck, an apoplectic temperament; that Antoinette was her goddaughter; that although she was piqued with Count Larinski the count was adroit, and would find a way to regain her sympathies. The park appeared to him magnificent; he admired its long, regular alleys, which had the appearance of extending as far as Peking; he paused some moments before the purple beech, and it seemed to him that there must be some resemblance between this beautiful tree and himself. He contemplated with the eyes of proprietorship the terrace planted with superb lindens, and he decided that he would establish himself in his Maisons chateau, that his pretty Cormeilles villa would merely be his country-seat. As it may be seen, his imagination refused him nothing; it placed happiness and wealth untold at his command.
We are unable to state whether Mme. de Lorcy actually had an apoplectic temperament; the one thing certain is, that she was not dead. Samuel Brohl perceived her from afar on the veranda, which she had just stepped out upon in order to watch for his arrival. He had forgotten himself in the park, which should one day be his park, and she was beginning to be uneasy about his coming.
She cried out to him: “At last! You always make us wait for you,” adding, in a most affable tone, “We meet to-day under less tragic circumstances than the last time you were here, and I hope you will bear away a pleasanter remembrance of Maisons.”
He respectfully kissed her hand, saying: “Happiness must be purchased; I cannot pay too dearly for mine.”
She ushered him into thesalon, where he had scarcely set foot, when he descried an old woman lounging on acauseuse, fanning herself as she chatted with Abbe Miollens. He remained motionless, his eyes fixed, scarcely breathing, cold as marble; it seemed to him that the four walls of thesalonswayed from right to left, and left to right, and that the floor was sliding from under his feet like the deck of a pitching vessel.
The previous day, Antoinette once departed, Mme. de Lorcy had resumed her attack on Princess Gulof, and the princess had ended by consenting to delay her departure, to dine with the adventurer of the green eyes, and to subject him to a close scrutiny. There she was; yes, it was indeed she! The first impulse of Samuel Brohl was to regain the door as speedily as possible; but he did nothing of the kind. He looked at Mme. de Lorcy: she herself was regarding him with astonishment; she wondered what could suddenly have overcome him; she could find no explanation for the bewilderment apparent in his countenance. “It is a mere chance,” he thought at last; “she has not intentionally drawn me into a snare.” This thought was productive of a sort of half relief.
“Eh bien!what is it?” she asked. “Has my poorsalonstill the misfortune to be hurtful to you?”
He pointed to ajardiniere, saying: “You are fond of hyacinths and tuberoses; their perfume overpowered me for a moment. I fear you think me very effeminate.”
She replied in a caressing voice: “I take you for a most worthy man who has terrible nerves; but you know by experience that if you have weaknesses I have salts. Will you have my smelling-bottle?”
“You are a thousand times too good,” he rejoined, and bravely marched forward to face the danger. It is a well-known fact that dangers in a silken robe are the most formidable of all.
Mme. de Lorcy presented him to the princess, who raised her chin to examine him with her little glittering eyes. It seemed to him that those gray orbs directed at him were two balls, which struck him in the heart; he quivered from head to foot and asked himself confusedly whether he were dead or living. He soon perceived that he was still living; the princess had remained impassible—not a muscle of her face had moved. She ended by bestowing upon Samuel a smile that was almost gracious, and addressing to him some insignificant words, which he only half understood, but which seemed to him exquisite—delicious. He fancied that she was saying to him: “You have a chance, you were born lucky; my sight has been impaired for some years, and I do not recognise you. Bless your star, you are saved!” He experienced such a transport of joy that he could have flung his arms about the neck of Abbe Miollens, who came up to him with extended hand, saying:
“What have you been thinking about, my dear count? Since we last met a very great event has been accomplished. What woman wishes, God wishes; but, after all, my own humble efforts were not without avail, and I am proud of it.”
Mme. de Lorcy requested Count Larinski to offer his arm to Princess Gulof and lead her out to dinner. He mechanically complied; but he had not the strength to utter a syllable as he conducted the princess to table. She herself said nothing; she seemed wholly busied in arranging with her unoccupied hand a lock of her gray hair, which had strayed too far over her forehead. He looked fixedly at this short, plump hand, which one day in a fit of jealous fury had administered to him two smart blows; his cheeks recognised it.
During dinner the princess was very gay: she paid more attention to Abbe Miollens than to Count Larinski; she took pleasure in teasing the good priest—in endeavouring to shock him a little. It was not easy to shock him; to his natural, easy good-nature he united an innate respect for grandeurs and for princesses. She did not neglect so good an opportunity to air her monkey-development theories. He merrily flung back the ball; he declared that he should prefer to be a fallen angel rather than a perfected monkey; that in his estimation a parvenu made a much sorrier figure in the world than the descendent of an old family of ruined nobility. She replied that she was more democratic than he. “It is pleasant to me,” said she, “to think that I am a progressive ape, who has a wide future before him, and who, by taking proper pains, may hope to attain new advancement.”
While they were thus chatting, Samuel Brohl was striving with all his might to recover from the terrible blow he had received. He noted with keen satisfaction that the eyesight of the princess was considerably impaired; that the microscopic studies, for which she had always had a taste, had resulted in rendering her somewhat near-sighted; that she was obliged to look out carefully to find her way among her wine-glasses. “She has not seen me for six years,” thought he, “and I have become a different man, I have undergone a complete metamorphosis; I have difficulty sometimes in recognising myself. Formerly, my face was close-shaven, now I have let my entire beard grow. My voice, my accent, the poise of my head, my manners, the expression of my countenance, all are changed; Poland has entered my blood—I am Samuel no longer, I am Larinski.” He blessed the microscope, which enfeebled the sight of old women; he blessed Count Abel Larinski, who had made of him his twin brother. Before the end of the repast he had recovered all his assurance, all his aplomb. He began to take part in the conversation: he recounted in a sorrowful tone a sorrowful little story; he retailed sundry playful anecdotes with a melancholy grace and sprightliness; he expressed the most chivalrous sentiments; shaking his lion’s mane, he spoke of the prisoner at the Vatican with tears in his voice. It were impossible to be a more thorough Larinski.
The princess manifested, in listening to him, an astonished curiosity; she concluded by saying to him: “Count, I admire you; but I believe only in physiology, and you are a little too much of a Pole for me.”
After they had left the table and repaired to thesalon, several callers dropped in. It was like a deliverance to Samuel. If the society was not numerous enough for him to lose himself in it, at least it served him as a shield. He held it for a certainty that the princess had not recognised him; yet he did not cease feeling in her presence unutterably ill at ease. This Calmuck visage of hers recalled to him all the miseries, the shame, the hard, grinding slavery of his youth; he could not look at her without feeling his brow burn as though it were being seared with a hot iron.
He entered into conversation with a supercilious, haughty, and pedantic counsellor-at-law, whose interminable monologues distilled ennui. This fine speaker seemed charming to Samuel, who found in him wit, knowledge, scholarship, and taste; he possessed the (in his eyes) meritorious quality of not knowing Samuel Brohl. For Samuel had come to divide the human race into two categories: the first comprehended those well-to-do, thriving people who did not know a certain Brohl; he placed in the second old women who did know him. He interrogated the counsellor with deference, he hung upon his words, he smiled with an air of approbation at all the absurdities that escaped him; he would have been willing to have his discourse last three hours by the watch; if this charming bore had shown symptoms of escaping him, he would have held him back by the button.
Suddenly he heard a harsh voice, saying to Mme. de Lorcy: “Where is Count Larinski? Bring him to me; I want to have a discussion with him.”
He could not do otherwise than comply; he quitted his counsellor with regret, went over and took a seat in the arm-chair that Mme. de Lorcy drew up for him at the side of the princess, and which had for him the effect of a stool of repentance. Mme. de Lorcy moved away, and he was lefttete-a-tetewith Princess Gulof, who said to him, “I have been told that congratulations are due to you, and I must make them at once—although we are enemies.”
“By what right are we enemies, princess?” he asked with a slightly troubled feeling, which quickly passed away as she answered:
“I am a Russian and you are a Pole, but we shall have no time for fighting; I leave for London to-morrow morning at seven o’clock.”
He was on the point of casting himself at her feet and tenderly kissing her two hands, in testimony of his gratitude. “To-morrow at seven o’clock,” he mentally ejaculated. “I have slandered her; she has some good in her.”
“When I say that I am a Russian,” resumed the princess, “it is merely a formal speech. Love of country is a prejudice, an idea that has had its day, that had sense in the times of Epaminondas or of Theseus, but that has it no longer. We live in the age of the telegraph, the locomotive; and I know of nothing more absurd now than a frontier, or more ridiculous than a patriot. Rumour says that you fought like a hero in the insurrection of 1863; that you gave proof of incomparable prowess, and that you killed with your own hand ten Cossacks? What harm had they done you, those poor Cossacks? Do they not sometimes haunt your dreams? Can you think of your victims without disquietude and without remorse?”
He replied, in a dry, haughty tone: “I really do not know, princess, how many Cossacks I have killed; but I do know that there are some subjects on which I do not love to expatiate.”
“You are right—I should not comprehend you. Don Quixote did not do Sancho the honour to explain himself to him every day.”
“Ah, I beg of you, let us talk a little of the man-monkey,” he observed, in a rather more pliant tone than he had at first assumed. “That is a question that has the advantage of being neither Russian nor Polish.”
“You will not succeed that way in throwing me off the track. I mean to tell you all the evil I think of you, no matter how it may incense you. You uttered, at table, theories that displeased me. You are not only a Polish patriot; you are an idealist, a true disciple of Plato, and you do not know how I always have detested this man. In all these sixty years that I have been in this world, I have seen nothing but selfishness, and grasping after self-gratification. Twice during dinner you spoke of an ideal world. What is an ideal world? Where is it situated? You speak of it as of a house whose inhabitants you are well acquainted with, whose key is in your pocket. Can you show me the key? I promise not to steal it from you. O poet!—for you are quite as much of a poet as of a Pole, which is not saying much—”
“Nothing remains but to hang me,” he interposed, smilingly.
“No, I shall not hang you. Opinions are free, and there is room enough in the world for all, even idealists. Besides, if you were to be hanged, it would bring to the verge of despair a charming girl who adores you, who was created expressly for you, and whom you will shortly marry. When will the ceremony take place?”
“If I dared hope that you would do me the honour of being present, princess, I should postpone it until your return from England.”
“You are too amiable; but I could not on any consideration retard the happiness of Mlle. Moriaz. There, my dear count, I congratulate you sincerely. I had the pleasure to meet here the future Countess Larinski. She is adorable! It is an exquisite nature, hers—a true poet’s wife. She must have brains, discernment; she has chosen you—that says everything. As to her fortune, I dare not ask you if she has any; you would turn away from me in disgust. Do idealists trouble their heads with such vile questions?”
She leaned towards him, and, fanning herself excitedly, added: “These poor idealists! they have one misfortune.”
“And what is that, princess?”
“They dream with open eyes, and the awakening is sometimes disagreeable. Ah, my dear Count Larinski, this, that, and the other,et cetera. Thus endeth the adventure.”
Then, stretching out her neck until her face was close to his, she darted at him a venomous, viper-like look, and, in a voice that seemed to cut into his tympanum like a sharp-toothed saw, she hissed, “Samuel Brohl, the man with the green eyes, sooner or later the mountains must meet!”
It seemed to him that the candelabra on the mantel-piece darted out jets of flame, whose green, blue, and rose-coloured tongues ascended to the ceiling; and it appeared to him as though his heart was beating as noisily as a clock-pendulum, and that every one would turn to inquire whence came the noise. But every one was occupied; no one turned round; no one suspected that there was a man present on whom a thunderbolt had just fallen.
The man passed his hand over his brow, which was covered with a cold sweat; then dispelling, by an effort of will, the cloud that veiled his eyes, he, in turn, leaned towards the princess, and with quivering lip and evil, sardonic glance, said to her, in a low voice:
“Princess, I have a slight acquaintance with this Samuel Brohl of whom you speak. He is not a man who will allow himself to be strangled without a great deal of outcry. You are not much in the habit of writing, nevertheless he received from you two letters, which he copied, placing the originals in safety. If ever he sees the necessity of appearing in a court of justice, these two letters can be made to create quite a sensation, and unquestionably they will be the delight of all the petty journals of Paris.”
Thereupon he made a profound bow, respectfully took leave of Mme. de Lorcy, and retired, followed by Abbe Miollens, who inflicted a real torture by insisting on accompanying him to the station.
No longer restrained by Mme. de Lorcy’s presence, the abbe spoke freely of the happy event in which he prided himself to have been a co-operator; he overwhelmed him with congratulation, and all the good wishes he could possibly think of for his happiness. During a quarter of an hour he lavished on him his myrrh and honey. Samuel would gladly have wrung his neck. He could not breathe until the abbe had freed him from his obtrusive society.
A storm muttered in the almost cloudless sky. It was a dry storm; the rain fell elsewhere. The incessant lightning, accompanied by distant thunder, gleamed from all quarters of the horizon, and darted its luminous flashes over the whole extent of the plain. At intervals the hills seemed to be on fire. Several times Samuel, who stood with his nose against the glass of the car-door, thought that he saw in the direction of Cormeilles the flaring light of a conflagration, in which were blazing his dream and two millions, to say nothing of his great expectations.
He bitterly reproached himself for his folly of the previous day. “If I had passed yesterday evening with her,” he thought, “surely she would have spoken of the Princess Gulof. I would have taken measures accordingly, and nothing would have happened.” It was all M. Langis’s fault; it was to him that he imputed the disaster, and he hated him all the more.
However, as he approached Paris, he felt his courage returning.
“Those two letters frightened the old fairy,” he thought. “She will think twice before she declares war with me. No, she will not dare.” He added: “And if she dared, Antoinette loves me so much that I can make her believe what I please.”
And he prepared in his mind what he should say, in case the event occurred.
At that very moment Mme. de Lorcy, who was alone with Princess Gulof, was saying: “Well, my dear, you have talked with my man. What do you think of him?”
The princess distressed her by her reply. “I think, my dear,” she rejoined, “that Count Larinski is the last of the heroes of romance—or, if you like better, the last of the troubadours; but I have no reason to believe him to be an adventurer.”
Mme. de Lorcy could get nothing further from Princess Gulof; she had invited her to remain overnight; she got no pay for her hospitality. The princess spent part of the night in reflecting and deliberating. Samuel Brohl’s insolent menace had produced some effect. She sought to remember the exact purport of the two letters that formerly she had had the imprudence to write him from London, while he was fulfilling a business commission for her in Paris. On his return she had required Samuel to burn these two compromising epistles, in her presence; he had deceived her; he burned the envelopes and blank paper. The thought of some day having her composition quoted in court, and printed verbatim in the petty journals, terrified her, and made her blood boil in her veins; she hardly cared to take Paris and St. Petersburg into her confidence concerning an experience the recollection of which caused her disgust—but to let such an admirable opportunity of vengeance escape her! renounce the delight of the gods and of princesses! permit this man who had just defied her to accomplish his underhand intrigue! She could not resign herself to the idea, and the consequence was that, during the night she spent at Maisons, she scarcely closed her eyes.
The following day, after breakfast, Mlle. Moriaz was walking alone on the terrace. The weather was delightfully mild. She was bare-headed, and had opened her white silk umbrella to protect herself from the sun; for Samuel Brohl had been a true prophet—there was sunshine. She looked up at the sky, where no trace was left of the wind-storm of the preceding evening, and it seemed to her that she never had seen the sky so blue. She looked at her flower-beds, and the flowers that she saw were perhaps not there. She looked at the orchard, growing on the slope that bordered the terrace, and she admired the foliage of the apple-trees, over which Autumn, with liberal hand, had scattered gold and purple; the grass there was as high as her knee, and was fragrant and glossy. Above the apple-trees she saw the spire of the church at Cormeilles; it seemed to amuse itself watching the flying clouds. It was a high-festival day. The bells were ringing out a full peal; they spoke to this happy girl of that far-off, mysterious land which we remember, without ever having seen it. Their silvery voices were answered by the cheerful cackling of the hens. She at once understood that a joyful event was occurring in the poultry-yard, as well as in the belfry; that below, as well as above, an arrival was being celebrated. But what pleased her more than all the rest was the little deep-set gateway with its ivy-hung arch at the end of the orchard. It was through this gate that he would come.
She walked several times around the terrace. The gravel was elastic, and rebounded under her step. Never had Mlle. Moriaz felt so light: life, the present, the future, weighed no heavier on her brow than a bird in the hand that holds it and feels it tremble. Her heart fluttered like a bird; like a bird it had wings, and only asked to fly. She believed that there was happiness everywhere; there seemed to be joy diffused through the air, in the wind, in every sound, and in all silences. She gazed smilingly on the vast landscape that was spread out before her eyes, and the sparkling Seine sent back her smile.
Some one came to announce that a lady, a stranger, had called, who wished to speak with her. Immediately thereupon the stranger appeared, and Mlle. Moriaz was most disagreeably surprised to find herself in the presence of the Princess Gulof, whom she would willingly never have seen again. “This is an unpleasant visit,” she thought, as she asked her guest to be seated on a rustic bench. “What can this woman want with me?”
“It was M. Moriaz whom I desired to speak with,” began the princess. “I am told that he is out. I shall leave in a few hours for Calais; I cannot await his return, and I have, therefore, decided to address myself to you, mademoiselle. I have come here to render you one of those little services that one woman owes to another; but, first of all, I would like to be assured that I may rely on your absolute discretion; I do not desire to appear in this affair.”
“In what affair, madame?”
“One of no little consequence; it concerns your marriage.”
“You are extremely kind to concern yourself with my marriage; but I do not understand——”
“You will understand in a few moments. So you promise me——”
“I promise nothing, madame, before I understand.”
The princess looked in amazement at Mlle. Moriaz. She had anticipated talking with a dove; she found that the dove had a less accommodating temper and a much stiffer neck than she had believed. She hesitated for a moment whether she would not at once end the interview; she decided, however, to proceed:
“I have a story to relate to you,” she continued, in a familiar tone; “listen with attention, I beg of you. I err if in the end you do not find it interesting. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, one of those unlucky chances, common in travelling, obliged me to pass several hours in a miserable little town in Galicia. The inn, or rather the tavern, where I stopped, was very dirty; the tavern-keeper, an ill-looking little German Jew, was still dirtier than his tavern, and he had a son who was in no better condition. I am given to forming illusions about people. In spite of his filth, this youth interested me. His stupid father refused him all instruction, and beat him unmercifully; he appeared intelligent; he made me think of a fresh-water fish condemned to live in a quagmire. He was called Samuel Brohl: remember the name. I pitied him and I saw no other way of saving him than to buy him of his father. This horrid little man demanded an exorbitant price. I assure you his pretensions were absurd. Well, my dear, I was out of cash; I had with me just the money sufficient for the expenses of the rest of the journey; but I wore on my arm a bracelet that had the advantage of pleasing him. It was a Persian trinket, more singular than beautiful. I can see it now; it was formed of three large plates of gold ornamented with grotesque animals, and joined by a filigree network. I valued this bracelet; it had been brought to me from Teheran. By means of a secret spring, one of the plates opened, and I had had engraved inside the most interesting dates of my life, and underneath them my profession of faith, with which you have no concern. Ah! my dear, when one has once been touched by that dangerous passion called philanthropy, one becomes capable of exchanging a Persian bracelet for a Samuel Brohl, and I swear to you that it was a real fool’s bargain that I made. This miserable fellow paid me badly for my kindness to him. I sent him to the university, and later I took him into my service as secretary. He had a black heart. One fine morning, he took to his heels and disappeared.”
“That was revolting ingratitude,” interrupted Antoinette, “and your good work, madame, was poorly recompensed; but I do not see what relation Samuel Brohl can have to my marriage.”
“You are too impatient, my darling. If you had given me time I would have told you that I had had the very unexpected pleasure of dining yesterday with him at Mme. de Lorcy’s. This German has made great advances since I lost sight of him; not content with becoming a Pole, he is now a person of vast importance. He is called Count Abel Larinski, and he is to marry very soon Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz.”
The blood rushed into Antoinette’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed fire. Princess Gulof entirely mistook the sentiment that animated her, and said: “My dear, don’t be angry, don’t be indignant, your indignation will not help you at all. Without doubt, a rascal capable of deceiving such a charming girl as you deserves death ten times over; but be careful not to make an exposure! My dear, scandal always splashes mud over every one concerned, and there is a rather vulgar but exceedingly sensible Turkish proverb that says that the more garlic is crushed, the stronger becomes its odour. Believe me, you would not come off without a tinge of ridicule; certain mistakes always appear a little ridiculous, and it is useless to proclaim them to the universe. Thank Heaven! you are not yet the Countess Larinski—I arrived in time to save you. Be silent about the discovery you have just made; by no means mention it to Samuel Brohl, and seek a proper pretext to break with him. You would not be a woman if you could not find ten for one.”
Mlle. Moriaz could no longer refrain her anger. “Madame,” she exclaimed excitedly, “will you declare to M. Larinski, in my presence, that his name is Samuel Brohl?”
“I made that declaration to him yesterday—it is useless to repeat it. He was nearer dead than alive, and I was truly sorry for the state into which I had thrown him. I cannot disguise from myself that I am the cause of all this; why did I take the boy from his father’s tavern and his natal mud? Perhaps there he would have remained honest. It was I who launched him into the world and gave him the desire to advance, I put the trump-cards into his hand, but he found that he could not win fast enough by fair play, so he ended by cheating. It is not my place to overwhelm the poor devil—we owe some consideration to those who are under obligations to us; and, once more, I desire not to appear further in this business. Promise me that Samuel Brohl never will be informed of the measures I have taken.”
She replied, in a haughty tone: “I promise you, madame, that I never will do Count Larinski the wrong to repeat to him a single word of the very likely story you have related to me.”
The princess rose hastily, remained standing before Mlle. Moriaz, and contemplated her in silence; finally she said, in tones of the most cutting sarcasm: “Ah! you do not believe me, my dear. Decidedly you do not believe me. You are right; you should not put faith in an old woman’s childish chatter. No, my darling, there is no Samuel Brohl: I dined yesterday at Maisons with the most authentic of Counts Larinski, and nothing remains for me to say but to present my best wishes for the certain happiness of the Countess Larinski,et cetera—of the Countess Larinski and company.”
With these words she bowed, turned on her heels, and disappeared.
Mlle. Moriaz remained an instant as if stunned by a blow. She questioned herself as to whether she had not seen a vision, or had had the nightmare. Was it, indeed, a Russian princess of flesh and blood who had just been there, who had been seated close beside her, and had conversed so strangely with her that the belfry of Cormeilles could not hear it without falling into a profound stupor? In fact, the belfry of Cormeilles had become silent, its bells no longer rang; an appalling silence reigned for two leagues round.
Antoinette soon controlled her emotions. “The day before yesterday,” she thought, “this woman appeared to me to be deranged: she is a lunatic; I wish that Abel were here, he could tell me what happened at dinner between him and this dotard, and we should laugh over it together. Perhaps nothing happened at all. The Princess Gulof should be confined. They do very wrong to let maniacs like that go at large. It is dangerous; the bells of Cormeilles have ceased ringing. Ah!bon Dieu, who knows? Mme. de Lorcy surely has a hand in this business; it is the result of some grand plot. How many acts are there in the play? Here we are at the second or third; but there are some jokes that are very provoking. I shall end by being seriously angry.”
Princess Gulof appeared to have entirely failed in her object. It seemed to Mlle. Moriaz that for the last twenty minutes she loved Count Larinski more than ever before.
The hour drew near; he was on the way; she had never been so impatient to see him. She saw some one at the end of the terrace. It was M. Camille Langis, who was going towards the laboratory.
He turned his head, retraced his steps, and came to her. M. Moriaz had asked him to translate two pages of a German memoir which he had not been able to understand. Camille was bringing the translation; perhaps that was the reason of his coming back to Cormeilles after two days; perhaps, too, it was only a pretext.
Mlle. Moriaz could not help thinking that his visit was inopportune; that he had chose an unfortunate time for it. “If the count finds him still here,” thought she, “I am not afraid that he will make a scene, but all his pleasure will be spoiled.” There was a tinge of coldness in her welcome to M. Langis, of which he was sensible.
“I am in the way,” he said, making a movement to retire.
She kept him, and altered her tone: “You are never in the way, Camille. Sit there.”
He seated himself, and talked of the races at Chantilly, that he had attended the day before.
She listened to him, bowed her head in sign of approval; but she heard his voice through a mist that veiled her senses. She lifted her hand to brush away a wasp that annoyed her by its buzzing. The lace of her cuff, in falling back, left her wrist exposed.
“What a curious bracelet you have!” said M. Langis.
“Have you not seen it before?” she replied. “It is some time since——”
She interrupted herself, a sudden idea occurring to her. She looked at her wrist. This bracelet from which she never was parted—this bracelet that Count Larinski had given to her—this bracelet that he loved because it had belonged to his mother, and that the late Countess Larinski had worn as long as she lived—resembled none other; but Mlle. Moriaz observed that it had a strong resemblance to the Persian bracelet that the Princess Gulof had described to her, and which she had exchanged for Samuel Brohl. The three gold plates, the grotesque animals, the filigree network—nothing was wanting. She took it from her arm and handed it to M. Langis, saying to him: “There is, it seems, something written on the interior of one of these plates; but you must know the secret to be able to open it. Can you guess secrets?”
He carefully examined the bracelet. “Two of these plates,” said he, “are solid, and of heavy gold; the third is hollow, and might serve as a case. I see a little hinge that is almost invisible; but I seek in vain for the secret—I cannot find it.”
“Is the hinge strong?”
“Not very, and the lid easily could be forced open.”
“That is what I want you to do,” she rejoined.
“What are you thinking of? I would not spoil a trinket that you value.”
She replied: “I have made the acquaintance of a Russian princess who has a mania for physiology and dissection. I have caught the disease, and I want to begin to dissect. I am fond of this trinket, but I want to know what is inside. Do as I tell you,” she continued. “You will find in the laboratory the necessary instruments. Go; the key is in the door.”
He consulted her look; her eye was burning, her voice broken, and she repeated: “Go—go! Do you not understand me?”
He obeyed, went to the laboratory, taking the bracelet with him. After five minutes he returned saying: “I am very unskilful; I crushed the lid in raising it; but you wished it, and your curiosity will be satisfied.”
She could, in truth, satisfy her curiosity. She eagerly seized the bracelet, and on the back of the plate, now left bare, she saw engraved in the gold, characters almost microscopic in size. Through the greatest attention she succeeded in deciphering them. She distinguished several dates, marking the year, the month, and the day, when some important event had occurred to the Princess Gulof. These dates, accompanied by no indication of any kind, formerly sufficed to recall the principal experiments that she had practised on mankind before having discovered Samuel Brohl. The result had not been very cheerful, for beneath this form of calendar stood a confession of faith, thus expressed, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!” This melancholy declaration was signed, and the signature was perfectly legible. Mlle. Moriaz spelled it out readily, although at that moment her sight was dim, and she was convinced that the trinket, which Count Larinski had presented to her as a family relic, had belonged to Anna Petrovna, Princess Gulof.
She grew mortally pale, and lost consciousness; she seemed on the verge of an attack of delirium. In the agitation of her mind, she imagined that she saw herself at a great distance, at the end of the world, and very small; she was climbing a mountain, on the other side of which there was a man awaiting her. She questioned herself, “Am I, or is this traveller, Mlle. Moriaz?” She closed her eyes, and saw a blank abyss open before her, in which her life was ingulfed, whirled about, like the leaf of a tree in a whirlpool.
M. Langis drew near her, and, lightly slapping the palms of her hands, said, “What is the matter?”
She roused herself, made an effort to lift her head, and let it sink again. The trouble that lay in the depths of her heart choked her; she experienced an irresistible need of confiding in some one, and she judged that the man who was talking to her was one of those men to whom a woman can tell her secret, one of those souls to whom she could pour out her shame without blushing. She began, in a broken voice, a confused, disconnected recital that Camille could scarcely follow. However, he finally understood; he felt himself divided between an immense pity for her despair, and a fierce lover’s joy that tightened his throat and well-nigh strangled him.
The belfry of Cormeilles had recovered its voice; two o’clock rang out on the air. Antoinette rose and exclaimed: “I was to meet him at the pretty little gate that you see from here! He will have the right to be angry if I keep him waiting.”
At once she hastened towards the balustered steps that led from the terrace to the orchard. M. Langis followed her, seeking to detain her. “You need not see him again,” said he. “I will meet him. Pray, charge me with your explanations.”
She repelled him and replied, in a voice of authority: “I wish to see him, no one but I can say to him what I have in my heart. I command you to remain here; I intend that he shall blame no one but me.” She added with a curl of the lips meant for a smile: “You must remember, I do not believe yet that I have been deceived; I will not believe it until I have read the lie in his eyes.”
She hastily descended into the orchard, and, during five minutes, her eye fixed on the gate, she waited for Samuel Brohl. Her impatience counted the seconds, and yet Mlle. Moriaz could have wished the gate would never open. There was near by an old apple-tree that she loved; in the old days she had more than once suspended her hammock from one of its arched and drooping branches. She leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree. It seemed to her that she was not alone; some one protected her.
At last the gate opened and admitted Samuel Brohl, who had a smile on his lips. His first words were: “And your umbrella! You have forgotten it?”
She replied: “Do you not see that there is no sunshine?” And she remained leaning against the apple-tree.
He uplifted his hand to show her the blue sky; he let it fall again. He looked at Antoinette, and he was afraid. He guessed immediately that she knew all. At once he grew audacious.
“I spent a dull day yesterday,” said he. “Mme. de Lorcy invited me to dine with a crazy woman; but the night made up for it. I saw Engadine in my dreams—the firs, the Alpine pines, the emerald lakes, and a red hood.”
“I, too, dreamed last night. I dreamed that the bracelet you gave me belonged to the crazy woman of whom you speak, and that she had her name engraved on it.”
She threw him the bracelet: he picked it up, examined it, turned and returned it in his trembling fingers. She grew impatient. “Look at the place that has been forced open. Don’t you know how to read?”
He read, and became stupefied. Who would have believed that this trinket that he had found among his father’s old traps had come to him from Princess Gulof? that it was the price she had paid for Samuel Brohl’s ignominy and shame? Samuel was a fatalist; he felt that his star had set, that Fate had conspired to ruin his hopes, that he was found guilty and condemned. His heart grew heavy within him.
“Can you tell me what I ought to think of a certain Samuel Brohl?” she asked.
That name, pronounced by her, fell on him like a mass of lead; he never would have believed that there could be so much weight in a human word. He trembled under the blow; then he struck his brow with his clinched hand and replied:
“Samuel Brohl is a man as worthy of your pity as he is of mine. If you knew all that he has suffered, all that he has dared, you could not help deeply pitying him and admiring him. Listen to me; Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate man—”
“Or a wretch!” she interrupted, in a terrible voice. She was seized by a fit of nervous laughter; she cried out: “Mme. Brohl! I will not be called Mme. Brohl. Ah! that poor Countess Larinski!”
He had a spasm of rage that would have terrified her had she conjectured what agitated him. He raised his head, crossed his arms on his breast, and said, with a bitter smile:
“It was not the man that you loved, it was the count.”
She replied, “The man whom I loved never lied.”
“Yes, I lied!” he cried, gasping for breath. “I drank that cup of shame without remorse or disgust. I lied because I loved you madly. I lied because you were dearer to me than my honour. I lied because I despaired of touching your heart, and any road seemed good that led to you. Why did I meet you? why could I not see you without recognising in you the dream of my whole life? Happiness had passed me by, it was about to take flight; I caught it in a trap—I lied. Who would not lie, to be loved by you?”
Samuel Brohl never had looked so handsome. Despair and passion kindled a sombre flame in his eyes; he had the sinister charm of a fiery Satan. He fixed on Antoinette a fascinating glance that said: “What matter my name, my lies, and the rest? My face is not a mask, and I am the man who pleased you.” He had not the least suspicion of the astonishing facility with which Antoinette had taken back the heart that she had given away so easily; he did not suspect that miracles can be wrought by contempt. In the middle ages people believed in golems, figures in clay of an entrancing beauty, which had all the appearance of life. Under a lock of hair was written, in Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word “Truth.” If they chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their charm, the clay was no longer anything but clay.
Mlle. Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl’s thought; she exclaimed: “The man I loved was he whose history you related to me.”
He would have liked to kill her, so that she never should belong to another. Behind Antoinette, not twenty steps distant, he descried the curb of a well, and grew dizzy at the sight. He discovered, with despair, that he was not made of the stuff for crime. He dropped down on his knees in the grass, and cried, “If you will not pardon me, nothing remains for me but to die!” She stood motionless and impassive. She repeated between her teeth Camille Langis’s phrase: “I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece.”
He rose and started to run towards the well. She was in front of him and barred the passage, but at the same moment she felt two hands clasp her waist, and the breath of two lips that sought her lips and that murmured, “You love me still, since you do not want me to die.”
She struggled with violence and horror; she succeeded, by a frantic effort, in disengaging herself from his grasp. She fled towards the house. Samuel Brohl rushed after her in mad pursuit; he was just reaching her, when he suddenly stopped. He had caught sight of M. Langis, hurrying from out a thicket, where he had been hidden. Growing uneasy, he had approached the orchard through a path concealed by the heavy foliage. Antoinette, out of breath, ran to him, gasping, “Camille, save me from this man!” and she threw herself into his arms, which closed about her with delight. He felt her sink; she would have fallen had he not supported her.
At the same instant a menacing voice saluted him with the words, “Monsieur, we will meet again!”
“To-day, if you will,” he replied.
Antoinette’s wild excitement had given place to insensibility; she neither saw nor heard; her limbs no longer sustained her. Camille had great difficulty in bringing her to the house; she could not ascend the steps of the terrace; he was obliged to carry her. Mlle. Moiseney saw him, and filled the air with her cries. She ran forward, she lavished her best care on her queen. All the time she was busy in bringing her to her senses she was asking Camille for explanations, to which she did not pay the least attention; she interrupted him at every word to exclaim: “This has been designed, and you are at the bottom of the plot. I have suspected you—you owe Antoinette a grudge. Your wounded vanity never has recovered from her refusal, and you are determined to be revenged. Perhaps you flatter yourself that she will end by loving you. She does not love you, and she never will love you. Who are you, to dare compare yourself with Count Larinski? Be silent! Do I believe in Samuel Brohl? I do not know Samuel Brohl. I venture my head that there is no such person as Samuel Brohl.”
“Not much of a venture, mademoiselle,” replied M. Moriaz, who had arrived in the meantime.
Antoinette remained during an hour in a state of mute languor; then a violent fever took possession of her. When the physician who had been sent for arrived, M. Langis accompanied him into the chamber of the sick girl. She was delirious: seated upright, she kept continually passing her hand over her brow; she sought to efface the taint of a kiss she had received one moonlight night, and the impression in her hair of the flapping of a bat’s wings that had caught in her hood. These two things were confounded in her memory. From time to time she said: “Where is my portrait? Give me my portrait.”
It was about ten o’clock when M. Langis called on Samuel Brohl, who was not astonished to see him appear; he had hoped he would come. Samuel had regained self-possession. He was calm and dignified. However, the tempest through which he had gone had left on his features some vestige of its passage. His lips quivered, and his beautiful chestnut locks curled like serpents about his temples, and gave his head a Medusa-like appearance.
He said to Camille: “Where and when? Our seconds will undertake the arrangement of the rest.”
“You mistake, monsieur, the motive of my visit,” replied M. Langis. “I am grieved to destroy your illusions, but I did not come to arrange a meeting with you.”
“Do you refuse to give me satisfaction?”
“What satisfaction do I owe you?”
“You insulted me.”
“When?”
“And you said: ‘The day, the place, the weapons. I leave all to your choice.’”
M. Langis could not refrain from smiling. “Ah! you at last acknowledge that your fainting-fit was comedy?” he rejoined.
“Acknowledge on your part,” replied Samuel, “that you insult persons when you believe that they are not in a state to hear you. Your courage likes to take the safe side.”
“Be reasonable,” replied Camille. “I placed myself at Count Larinski’s disposal: you cannot require me to fight with a Samuel Brohl!”
Samuel sprang to his feet; with fierce bearing and head erect he advanced to the young man, who awaited him unflinchingly, and whose resolute manner awed him. He cast upon him a sinister look, turned, and reseated himself, bit his lips until the blood came; then said in a placid voice:
“Will you do me the favour of telling me, monsieur, to what I owe the honour of this visit?”
“I came to demand of you a portrait that Mlle. Moriaz is desirous of having returned.”
“If I refuse to give it up, you will doubtless appeal to my delicacy?”
“Do you doubt it?” ironically replied Camille.
“That proves, monsieur, that you still believe in Count Larinski; that it is to him you speak at this moment?”
“You deceive yourself. I came to see Samuel Brohl, who is a business-man, and it is a commercial transaction that I intend to hold with him.” And drawing from his pocket a porte-monnaie, he added: “You see I do not come empty-handed.”
Samuel settled himself in his arm-chair. Half closing his eyes, he watched M. Langis through his eye-lashes. A change passed over his features; his nose became more crooked, and his chin more pointed; he no longer resembled a lion, he was a fox. His lips wore the sugared smile of a usurer, one who lays snares for the sons of wealthy families, and who scents out every favourable case. If at this moment Jeremiah Brohl had seen him from the other world, he would have recognised his own flesh and blood.
He said at last to Camille: “You are a man of understanding, monsieur; I am ready to listen to you.”
“I am very glad of it, and, to speak frankly, I had no doubts about it. I knew you to be very intelligent, very much disposed to make the best of an unpleasant conjuncture.”
“Ah! spare my modesty. I thank you for your excellent opinion of me; I should warn you that I am accused of being greedy after gain. You will leave some of the feathers from your wings between my fingers.”
For a reply M. Langis significantly patted the porte-monnaie which he held in his hand, and which was literally stuffed with bank-notes. Immediately Samuel took from a locked drawer a casket, and proceeded to open it.
“This is a very precious gem,” he said. “The medallion is gold, and the work on the miniature is exquisite. It is a master-piece—the colour equals the design. The mouth is marvellously rendered. Mengs or Liotard could not have done better. At what do you value this work of art?”
“You are more of a connoisseur than I. I will leave it to your own valuation.”
“I will let you have the trinket for five thousand francs; it is almost nothing.”
Camille began to draw out the five thousand francs from his porte-monnaie. “How prompt you are!” remarked Samuel. “The portrait has not only a value as a work of art; I am sure you attach a sentimental value to it, for I suspect you of being head and ears in love with the original.”
“I find you too greedy,” replied Camille, casting on him a crushing glance.
“Do not be angry. I am accustomed to exercise methodical precision in business affairs. My father always sold at a fixed price, and I, too, never lower my charges. You will readily understand that what is worth five thousand francs to a friend is worth double to a lover. This gem is worth ten thousand francs. You can take it or leave it.”
“I will take it,” replied M. Langis.
“Since we agree,” continued Samuel, “I possess still other articles which might suit you.”
“Why, do you think of selling me your clothing?”
“Let us come to an understanding. I have other articles of the same lot.”
And he brought from a closet the red hood, which he spread out on the table.
“Here is an article of clothing—to use your own words—that may be of interest to you. Its colour is beautiful; if you saw it in the sunshine, it would dazzle you. I grant that the stuff is common—it is very ordinary cashmere—but if you deign to examine it closely, you will be struck by the peculiar perfume that it exhales. The Italians call it ‘l’odor femminino.’”
“And what is your rate of charge for the ‘odor femminino?’”
“I will be moderate. I will let you have this article and its perfume for five thousand francs. It is actually giving it away.”
“Assuredly. We will say ten and five—that makes fifteen thousand.”
“One moment. You can pay for all together. I have other things to offer you. One would say that the floor burned your feet, and that you could not endure being in this room.”
“I allow that I long to leave this—what shall I say?—this shop, lair, or den.”
“You are young, monsieur; it never does to hurry; haste causes us acts of forgetfulness that we afterwards regret. You would be sorry not to take away with you these two scraps of paper.”
At these words he drew from his note-book two letters, which he unfolded.
“Is there much more?” demanded Camille. “I fear that I shall become short of funds, and be obliged to go back for more.”
“Ah! these two letters, I will not part with them for a trifle, the second especially. It is only twelve lines in length; but what pretty English handwriting! Only see! and the style is loving and tender. I will add that it is signed. Ah! monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz will be charmed to see these scrawls again. Under what obligations she will be to you! You will make the most of it; you will tell her that you wrested them from me, your dagger at my throat—that you terrified me. With what a gracious smile she will reward your heroism! According to my opinion, that smile is as well worth ten thousand francs as the medallion—the two gems are of equal value.”
“If you want more, it makes no difference.”
“No, monsieur; I have told you I have only one price.”
“At this rate, it is twenty-five thousand francs that I owe you. You have nothing more to sell me?”
“Alas! that is all.”
“Will you swear it?”
“What, monsieur! you admit, then, that Samuel Brohl has a word of honour—that when he has sworn, he can be believed?”
“You are right; I am still very young.”
“That is all, then, I swear to you,” affirmed Samuel, sighing. “My shop is poorly stocked; I had begun laying in a supply, but an unfortunate accident deranged my little business.”